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MSTF TV || BREAKING NEWS: Earthquake of magnitude 7.4 strikes just north of Shizuoka Prefecture. 7:38 p.m.

Musutafu News || Major earthquake hits close to Shizuoka. 7:43 p.m.

WeatherAlert Japan || Earthquake causes building collapse in Tokyo. 8:23 p.m.

Kansai News Channel || M-7.4 earthquake derails train, casualties unknown. 8:54 p.m.

Kirishima wakes to dust in his lungs and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's on his stomach. There’s something above him, digging into his spine and pinning him to the ground. He coughs, shifting beneath the mounting pressure before a hand latches onto his arm and an urgent voice calls out: “Don’t move!”

Kirishima stills. His eyes feel like they’re glued shut. He pries them open, but the sight he’s met with does little to alleviate his confusion: a broken chunk of concrete, a shattered pane of glass, the remains of a faux-leather seat, and his own arm—skin still hardened but bloodied. For a moment he thinks it’s his blood despite not feeling the sting of open wounds, but then the hand still gripping his forearm registers and he follows the other arm to a very familiar and very bloodied face.

“Don’t move,” Kaminari repeats. Red drips down the blonde’s head, staining his yellow hair a muddied brown, but his eyes are focused elsewhere—somewhere above Kirishima, where the sky must have fallen and crushed Kirishima to the ground, nicking Kaminari in the process, because something has Kaminari spooked and that something feels like it weighs a ton.

He grunts, but listens. His lungs spasm as he chokes on dust. “What—?”

“Something collapsed,” Kaminari says, eyes wide as he glances off to the side, beyond Kirishima’s range of vision. “Everything collapsed. I don’t—I can’t remember. I just woke up, but—dude, it’s like a bomb went off or something. I don’t know what happened, but just—stay still.” The fingers gripping Kirishima’s arm are shaking. “And don’t let go of your quirk.”

Awareness slams into him at the reminder, and he wheezes out a sharp groan, his entire body aching like he’d been hit by something that bypassed his quirk and bruised his bones instead. He clenches a hardened fist. The weight above him seems to gain a thousand pounds.

“Kirishima?! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

A grunt.

"Can you breathe alright?"

He jerks his head 'no' against the ground.

Kaminari lets out a curse. “Okay. Alright, man, uh—I’ll figure something out. I’ll get you out. I just—” He cuts himself off, eyes darting around as if searching for something.

Kirishima follows his gaze, finally taking in the wreckage around him. He’s lying on concrete littered with glass shards and debris. Light flickers from somewhere overhead, casting everything in a murky yellow that reaches just far enough for Kirishima to see across the room—which isn’t much of a room at all. The space is long, stretching at least 50 meters down from where Kirishima’s pinned before shrinking into a circular tunnel shrouded in shadows.

There’s a track trailing out of the tunnel, and Kirishima follows it sluggishly, gaze lifting up over warped metal and smoke, twisted sheets of steel and crumpled bits of concrete, and—

“—Esuha City! We’ll take the train. C’mon, man, it’ll be fun!”

Oh.

The memories arrive in blinks with the flickering light. Esuha City. The market. Him, and Kaminari, and—

“You almost missed the train, Shitty Hair. Seven-thirty, remember? Wasn’t this your shitty idea?”

Sound filters through with the memories: the hissing of smoke, the buzzing of the broken lights, the voices—panicked whispers and far-off shouts, muffled by the distance and the haze of dust that had settled in the station. Something akin to panic digs its claws into Kirishima’s chest.

He remembers now.

Kirishima’s leaning his head back against the window, feeling the vibrations of the train rumble through his skull, the world outside flying past in a blur as the track dips underground. Bakugou’s standing in the middle of the train car, holding on to the overhead handle, eyes on his phone. Kaminari’s goading him, trying to get him to sit next to them— “Guess you think you’re too cool for us, huh, Kacchan?”

"Fuck off, Sparkplug."

He remembers the morning—getting permission from Aizawa to leave campus and convincing their stubborn friend to go with them. He remembers the excitement, staring out the window as the train travels west, leaving Musutafu and the UA campus behind. And he remembers the train—the train that’s now an unrecognizable wreck, knocked over in a sickening mimicry of the toy train Kirishima would play with as a kid—the one that would topple over when it went around the curve in the track too fast.

Something about that image has his gut twisting in dread.

The frantic mumblings above him are getting louder. “—too heavy to lift. Maybe if I get a lever, or something. That would work, right?”

Kirishima coughs. “Kami—” he grits out. “Where’s Bakugou?”

Kaminari falls silent. “I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t seen him.”

The world jerks. The train rocks.

Bakugou glances up from his phone. “The fuck was that?”

Low murmurs of confusion. A moment’s hesitation. Then—from the blur of shadows outside the train windows—an unholy screech, metal on metal, brakes failing as the train screams into the darkened tunnel. Something gives. The train jerks, slamming forward into the other car with a horrible crash.

Bakugou loses his grip on the handle. His shout gets cut off with a sickening bang.

“Gotta find him,” Kirishima grunts, bracing his arms, shifting under the weight of the world still pressing down on his back. Whatever’s above him groans dangerously at the movement, and Kaminari’s hand darts out to stop him.

"Wait!"

“I can do it—”

“It’ll collapse if you try to lift it yourself!”

Kirishima stills.

“It’s some sort of support beam,” Kaminari goes on, eyeing the thing with unease. “Part of the ceiling collapsed. If you move wrong, the whole thing’s gonna come down on both of us. I’d try to lift it, but...” He gestures down to his leg, bloodied and bent in a way that makes Kirishima wince. “I’m useless, man.”

Useless.

From across the room—which Kirishima now registers as a subway station, blocked off by fallen rubble—someone calls out. A sob. A cry for help. A woman drags someone out from a train car that had miraculously stayed intact despite the crash, and the knot of dread in Kirishima’s gut tightens.

The other train cars in his vision hadn’t been so lucky.

Dread morphs into desperation. Kirishima starts moving, ignoring Kaminari’s immediate protests, wincing as the rubble creaks dangerously and bits of debris clatter to the concrete. “Kaminari,” he grits out. “Get back.”

Kaminari—wide-eyed yet stubborn—stays put, hand pressed against Kirishima’s bicep in an attempt to keep him down. “Don’t try it, man. It’s too heavy. I know you’re strong, but...”

Not strong enough, comes the instinctive voice inside his head. He shuts it down immediately. There’s an angrier voice in his head—get up, you idiot—goading him on, sounding suspiciously like his angry blond friend currently trapped somewhere in the wreckage. He listens to that voice instead, gritting his teeth and bracing himself as he pushes himself up, ignoring the aching muscles in his arms and Kaminari still trying to be the voice of reason.

“Seriously, man, don’t—!”

“You boys need some help?”

The new voice comes out of nowhere, breaking Kirishima’s concentration and halting his progress as he slumps back down with a wheeze. The weight above him feels impossibly heavier.

A man crouches beside Kaminari, glancing between Kirishima’s predicament and Kaminari’s injury with thinly-veiled concern. He’s on the older side, peppery-gray hair stained red on one side as blood drips from his temple. Scrapes crisscross his arm beneath the rips in his suit, fabric torn and coated in dust. A sight for sore eyes, nonetheless.

“Please,” Kaminari says, voice tinged with anxiety. “I can’t lift it off of him.”

It takes some careful coordinating between Kaminari and the older man—who introduced himself as Mr. Atsumi—but they eventually find a make-shift lever of-sorts to wedge beneath the collapsed beam and shave off the weight as they attempt to lift it up—hopefully high enough for Kirishima to crawl out of the way. There’s a brief pause as they count it down, then the weight pressing into Kirishima’s spine suddenly vanishes. He sucks in a breath, hands scrambling at the ground at their signal as he pulls himself to safety, rolling out of the way before the wreckage hits the debris-strewn concrete with an awful crunch.

Coughs wrack his frame. He hunches over on his knees, holding himself up with a shaky hand while another hand squeezes his shoulder.

“Woah,” Kaminari says. “You okay?”

Kirishima nods. He flexes his free hand, eyeing the grime and blood coating the now-unhardened skin. His joints ache. His head pounds. His bones feel like one big bruise.

He stumbles to his feet.

“Slow down, kid,” Atsumi says, arm reaching out to steady him. “That quirk of yours was a lucky break, but I don’t think you should push it. Besides, the stairway collapsed. No use getting up if we’re stuck down here anyway.”

Kirishima feels sluggish. “They need help.”

Bakugou needs help.

“That’s a job for the pros, kid. Wait for the heroes to get here.”

“They’re already here,” Kirishima insists, shrugging off the man’s hand and staggering towards the wreckage of the train as he hears Kaminari’s voice explaining: “We’re from UA. Hero course students.” He makes it about a foot, wheezing in the dust-filled air, before a nasty cough has him doubling over and bracing himself on the fallen support beam he’d been pinned beneath.

The man calls after him. “License or not, your friend’s not going anywhere on that leg of his.”

Kirishima turns at that.

Kaminari meets his gaze. There’s a look in his eyes—something resigned, yet fiery. From anyone else, it might’ve meant something along the lines of, this isn’t a good idea, but I know you won’t listen. “Go,” he nods. “I’m good.”

From Kaminari, though, it could only mean one thing: I’d be right behind you if I could.  

Kirishima goes.

. . .

“—strong enough to cause structural damage. Authorities have yet to confirm any casualties, but we are getting reports of a possible train station collapse just north of the earthquake’s epicenter. No word yet on whether a train was caught in the collapse, but we’ll keep you updated on further developments—”

“Eri okay?”

Aizawa keeps his gaze on the TV. “She’s safe,” he says, wrapping his capture scarf around his neck. “Mirio’s with her.” The newscaster on the screen is still talking, narrating over clips of the damage caused by the earthquake. A road closure. A building collapse. Caved in roofs and broken windows. A seven-car pile-up shutting down a highway. And now a train that may or may not be stuck under a sunken subway tunnel.

His phone, silent, weighs heavy in his hand.

“That’s good,” Hizashi says. “Your class?”

“Most are still at the dorms, but...” Aizawa taps at the sign-out sheet on his desk, three signatures scrawled beneath the date. “They went out half an hour ago,” he says. “I haven’t been able to get ahold of them.”

Hizashi looks up sharply. “D’you know where they are?”

“I have an idea.” He looks back at the television screen. “But I hope I’m wrong.”

The newscast has moved on to the latest reported incident, camera overlooking a street shrouded in a dust cloud and what had once been a four-story building—now little more than a pile of crumpled rubble. Civilians are stumbling out of the remains, pro heroes on the scene guiding them away from the wreckage. It’s a horrific sight, and Aizawa knows with a sinking feeling that not everyone made it out of that collapse alive. He refuses to accept the thought that the same could be said for the train station.

His kids will not be casualties.

“I’m heading out there,” Hizashi says, nodding to the screen. “Stay safe, Shouta.”

Aizawa hums. “You, too.”

The door clicks shut behind the other teacher, leaving Aizawa with noise of the news channel broadcasting from downtown Tokyo—the headline announcing ‘9 wounded, 1 dead in Tokyo building collapse’—and his phone, still unbearably quiet, in hand.  

To: Kirishima Eijirou
—Are you three okay? Call me when you get this.
Message failed to send.

. . .

Everything hurts.

Glass and metal debris crunch under Kirishima’s feet as he stumbles towards the wreckage, the aches making themselves known full-force as though punishing his choice to play hero. He coughs on air thick with dust, unable to fully catch his breath after nearly getting crushed. He doesn’t know how long he was unconscious for, how long he was holding up the ceiling with his quirk, but his shaky arms and unsteady legs don’t bode well for sustained use in the near future.

He eyes the ceiling with unease, gaze trailing the hairline fractures that stretch across some of the remaining support beams and snake down the concrete walls. ‘Earthquake,’ Atsumi had supplied while working to free Kirishima, answering their unspoken question. ‘Must’ve been a bad one.’

He’s not wrong. The side of the station where Kirishima had been pinned had mostly collapsed, concrete slabs, metal, and wires in an avalanche of rubble. The tunnel their train had been heading for prior to the quake had also collapsed, the reinforced curved ceiling buckling and barely catching the front of the train in an implosion of concrete. The cloud of dust had spread out from the crash site, billowing up and over the wrecked train cars and their disoriented passengers.

The scene is something straight out of a movie. Terror grabs at him, seeping into his lungs alongside the dust.

A hand clasps his arm. He jolts. “Please,” an elderly woman rasps. “I overheard—you’re from UA?” The sleeve of her dress hangs in tatters as she points a shaky hand towards the tracks, where two other passengers stand by a toppled train car. “My husband. I can’t get him out.”

For a selfish second, Kirishima hesitates. He glances away, towards the rest of the train, knowing they had been closer to the front and fearing what that means for his missing friend. The dust cloud shrouds much of the rest of the wreck, leaving far too many question marks to combat the building sense of dread. But the old woman’s grip on his arm tightens, and he meets her frightened, desperate gaze, and he remembers. He’s a hero. He has a job to do. The civilians come first.

A traitorous voice in his head wonders when they had forfeited their right to just be civilians, too.

Kirishima takes that voice and crushes it beneath the reassuring smile he draws across his face. “I’d be happy to help, ma’am.” He lets her guide him towards the train car, helping her hobble over the debris strewn across the ground as he takes in the scene before him.

The train car in question is lying on its side, derailed from the tracks and shoved up against the back wall of the station. The outer frame is dented, caved inwards beneath the weight of another car. It had been knocked loose from the coupler during the wreck and somehow ended up on top of the car behind it. The connecting door of the pinned car had vanished behind the wreckage and rubble, leaving the remaining exit for the man trapped inside blocked by the weight of the other car.

The other passengers are arguing as Kirishima and the old woman approach: “—can’t break the windows, idiot. They’re reinforced.”

“Well, we can’t exactly lift the damn thing.”

“I know that.”

Kirishima clears his throat. “Uh—I can help.”

One of the passengers—a woman with a visibly broken arm—looks over with a raised eyebrow. “You got an anti-gravity quirk, or something?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Great, then we’re back at square one.”

Kirishima bites back the frustration of getting interrupted (he hears the edge of fear in the woman's voice and immediately forgives the gruff attitude). He eyes the train car in question as the two passengers go back to bickering over thick steel and unbreakable windows. It’s heavy, without a doubt. A quirk like Uraraka’s would definitely come in handy, but that’s not an option at the moment. The car itself is only half-reclined against the crumpled second car, meaning there’s just enough space for Kirishima to wedge himself in the gap beneath it and hopefully get enough leverage to shove it to the side—just far enough to free the doors and pull the old woman’s husband out of his crushed metal cage.

He turns back to the civilians. “I can lift it.”  

The arguing immediately cuts off. He tries not to feel offended by the not-so-subtle once-overs and the visible doubt that crosses their faces. “Kid, don’t be stupid—”

The world jerks.

The floor shifts beneath Kirishima’s feet, sending him toppling to the broken concrete. He throws his hands out to catch himself and hisses as pain bursts across his palm, a jagged sliver of metal slicing a decent gash. ‘Aftershock,’ he thinks, cursing under his breath. He hardens his skin on instinct, climbing back to unsteady feet to the sound of panicked cries, the old woman and the two other passengers ducking for cover as the wreckage shifts. There’s an awful groaning sound as the pinned train car buckles further, the metal frame already compromised from the wreck now failing to hold up the shifting weight of the other car.

A man’s voice calls out from inside the car—terrified, desperate, trapped.

Kirishima doesn’t hesitate this time.

Voices shout after him as he runs to the wreck. “Hey, Red, stop,” the younger woman calls— loud, angry, scared. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

Red. Like the red dripping from his hand, coating his palm and making his grip dangerously slippery as he slides beneath the sinking wreckage; like the strands of hair falling in his eyes, gel falling victim to the sweat dripping down his forehead. Red, like the eyes drilling a hole into his soul, the sharp, familiar voice echoing in his head as the weight of the world once again drops on his shoulders: ‘Don’t you dare fucking stop.’ Red, like his hero name. Because he’s a hero.

“Don’t worry,” he grits out, bearing a shark-toothed grin at the horrified passengers. “Red Riot’s got this.”

The weight sinks. He’s shaking—he’s not sure if the ground is still trembling with the force of the aftershock, or if it’s his own muscles protesting the abuse. Hardened skin cuts shallow scrapes in the metal of the car as it bends and threatens to collapse on top of him. And it hurts—an unrelenting pressure compressing his spine and forcing him down, pushing his endurance training to a level he’s never had to test. He stifles a cry behind clenched teeth, but then the earth shifts violently one final time and his concentration shifts with it. His knees buckle, and he shouts, desperately scrambling to retain his hold as a horrible ache burns through his bones.

Distantly, he can hear voices yelling: “—help him!”

“It’s falling!”

“Push it off!”

There’s movement—slight tremors in the metal as more hands press against the train car. It shifts, rocking back with the added force, and Kirishima lets it fall. It topples harmlessly off the pinned car and hits the ground with a resounding crash.

Kirishima crashes with it. He slumps back against the rubble, sucking in a painful breath. His whole body hurts, arms shaking and head pounding as he props himself up, listening to the whirl of voices around him. They sound relieved, thankfully, which hopefully means the old man had been freed and Kirishima’s efforts hadn’t gone in vain. He peels his eyes open—when had they closed?—to check for himself, and instead finds himself face to face with a familiar stranger.

He jerks back. It’s the woman from before—she reaches out with her good arm, placating. “Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Kirishima blinks at her. “Is everyone okay?”

She blinks back, seemingly taken aback by his question. “I—yes, Mr. Okada is fine. We got him out.” She nods to the side, where an older gentleman is reclined against the train, brushing off the fretful hands of his wife. “Thanks to you, kid. Maybe worry about yourself, now, huh? You’re not looking so good.”

His body aches. His head pounds. Nausea curls in his stomach, an uncomfortable reminder that he’s pushed himself too far and really should listen to the blunt words of the kind stranger in front of him. If he looks anywhere close to how he feels, he’s not surprised to see the concern in the woman’s eyes. He feels like shit.

‘Yeah, you look like shit, too, Shitty Hair.’

Bakugou.

Kirishima mentally shakes himself, cursing how long he’d been sitting there, how he’d hesitated long enough to even consider giving in and waiting for help to arrive. There’s no waiting. These people need help—now. Bakugou needs help; that familiar explosive voice has been silent for far too long for comfort.

Kirishima moves, pain shooting through shaky limbs as he shifts. He bites back a groan, ignoring the immediate protest from the woman.

“Hey, hey, easy. Don’t move. Where are you going?”

Kirishima doesn’t listen. He crawls to his knees. “I’m a hero.”

“Yes—yeah, you were pretty heroic, kid,” the woman says, arm stretched out to stop him. “You did good. Just stay down. Help will be here soon.”

“No.” He brushes past her arm, biting his lip as the frustration bubbles up again. She doesn’t get it. “I’m a hero.” His provisional hero license weighs heavy in his pocket, a burden he’s chosen to earn, to carry around with pride. The badge of ‘hero’ isn’t something he wears lightly. It’s not a costume he can just take off whenever he feels like it. It’s who he is. He shields. He protects. He saves.

He may not be decked in his usual red and black, but Red Riot still has a job to do.

Fire in his eyes burning red-hot, he goes.

The woman doesn’t try to stop him this time.

. . .

Close to the track, away from falling rubble and the shifting wreck, a group of three dozen or so passengers had begun to gather, clustered on the dusty floor. Children sit by their parents, clutching stuffed animals and their parents’ hands, tears drawing tracks down their cheeks. A group of students—uniforms in tatters—huddle around their phones, one holding their device up as if searching for a signal. A young man crouches by a family, glowing hand pressed against the bleeding wound on a little boy’s arm. Other passengers are flitting about, offering water and reassurance, guiding the injured away from the wreck.

Three dozen: a relieving number, but still far too many missing. Kirishima hopes he’ll never hear of a body being pulled from the rubble. He knows not to get his hopes up. Hero training taught him that. He does it anyway.

Three dozen safe.

Bakugou’s not among them.

“Hey—are you hurt?”

Kirishima snaps out of it. A passenger stands in front of him, gaze an odd, piercing mix of concern and impatience. They scan his figure, as if looking for injuries beneath the ripped clothing, dust, and paper-thin cuts along his arms where his hardened skin gave way to exhaustion like cracks in armor. He should say ‘yes.’ His head throbs, agreeing.

He shakes his head no, eyeing the worst of the wreck over the passenger’s shoulder. “I’m looking for my friend. He’s my age—blonde, loud.” He breaks off in a desperate sort of laugh. “He’s kinda hard to miss. He’s training to be a hero, like me. He should be out here, helping, but—I don’t see him. Please, have you—?”

The person’s impatient expression softens into something sympathetic, and Kirishima chokes, cutting off as a jolt of fear cuts something fierce inside him.

“There’s a boy over there,” they say, nodding towards a crumpled train car near the collapsed tunnel. The doors had been ripped away, leaving a gaping tear in the metal frame, but Kirishima can’t see inside the car from here. The passenger continues: “About your age, blonde. Don’t know much else. Just that he’s pinned, and we haven’t been able to wake him up.”

It’s getting hard to breathe. He’s not sure the dust in his lungs is the reason.

The wreck—impossibly—looks worse the closer he gets to it. He leaves the passenger behind, drowning out their words of protest in the crunch of glass and rubble beneath his shoes. The only thing on his mind is the train car in front of him—an unrecognizable box of metal thrown from the track, crushed on all sides, leaving very little to the imagination of the fate that might have befallen whoever had been the unlucky passengers trapped within.

Kirishima remembers. The older woman sitting across from them, face half-covered by a newspaper. The businessman in a well-pressed suit, checking his watch impatiently. The young man and the teenage girl with identical smiles—siblings, maybe—laughing at something on the girl’s phone. The couple holding hands at the back of the train.

The sudden jolt. The screech. The ensuing wreck shrouded in a muddled cloud in his memories. Kirishima and Kaminari somehow end up away from the worst of it, maybe tossed through a shattered window or the now-unobstructed doorway, but Bakugou...

He hadn’t made it out.

The jagged edges of the door-less opening threaten to cut Kirishima as he ducks into the wrecked car. The interior is cloaked in shadows, the dim yellow light from the station barely filtering in through the broken windows. It’s dark, but there’s just enough light for Kirishima to make out the seats covered in broken glass, the floor coated in dust, and the silhouettes tucked against the far end of the train. His heart pounds as he maneuvers through the cabin, ducking under dented metal and climbing over the seats and rubble, kicking up dust.

He coughs into his arm, squinting through the haze at the crouched figure against the wall. “...Bakugou?”

Watery eyes shoot up. It’s the girl Kirishima remembers from the train. Distantly, he wonders where her (supposed) brother is. Her black hair is falling out of a ponytail. There’s blood on her face, staining her clothes and coating her hands. Kirishima’s first thought is that she’s far too young to be covered in that much blood.

His second—traitorous—thought reminds him that he can’t be more than a year or two older than her.

(A third thought, painfully louder, reminds him he’d signed up for this. She hadn’t.)

He wants to ignore that third thought. Then his gaze falls, and his heart is ripped from his chest.

We asked for this.

Didn’t we?

Bakugou looks like a ghost—skin a white canvas painted a gruesome red. Scarlet’s dyed his blonde hair a grisly brown, pooling around his head and staining the knees of the girl’s pants as she kneels beside him. He’s slumped on his side, back pressed against the wall of the car, one arm awkwardly pinned beneath him and the other stretched out as if reaching for something. Eyes closed. Chest moving.

Alive.

The outer frame of the train car has caved in, crushing him against the floor. More blood streaks across the metal, painting a grisly nightmare scene Kirishima wants desperately to wake up from. He shifts his gaze back up to his friend’s face. Eyes still closed. Chest still moving.

Alive.

“Do you know him?”

Kirishima can’t find his voice. He merely nods, dropping to his knees by Bakugou’s side. The slack expression on his face is so uncharacteristic it’s jarring, and Kirishima can feel the panic creeping up, squeezing his heart, coiling around his chest like a serpent. Everything about this is wrong. Bakugou should never be this silent, this still.

This red.

A sniffle. “I’m sorry,” the girl cries. “I—I tried to help.” She holds up a shaking hand stained bloodred. “I thought I could heal him with my quirk, but I’m not strong enough. I’m sorry.”

Something snaps in Kirishima. Maybe it’s the blood on her hands. Maybe it’s the painfully familiar thought of ‘I’m not strong enough’ that sounds so very wrong coming out of this girl’s mouth—a civilian, a child, who should not have those concerns to begin with, who did not sign up for a career that would etch those concerns into her brain. Or maybe it’s the fact that Kirishima can’t help but blame himself.

Earthquakes hit without warning. Kirishima knows this. He knows the horrifying wreck had been out of his control. He knows there’s nothing he could’ve done to stop it. But this knowledge does little against the voice screaming at him that he still could’ve done something, something that would have kept the blood from staining an innocent teenager’s hands, that would’ve shielded her from the horrors now reflected in wide, watery eyes.

The girl doesn’t need to be strong.

Kirishima does.

He signed up for this.

He gives the girl a shaky smile. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He shifts his gaze back down to the still-unconscious blonde. “He’ll be okay, too.”

He’ll be okay, too.

Kirishima grips the top of Bakugou’s outstretched hand with one hand and squeezes his shoulder with the other. “Bakugou?” His voice wavers, cracks. He clears his throat. “Hey, man, now’s not the time to be sleeping, okay?” He gives the other boy’s shoulder a gentle shake, too scared to aggravate the nasty head wound still turning blonde hair red. “It’s really not like you to make me worry about you, man. You gotta wake up now, tell me to ‘fuck off,’ or something—please.”

No response. Kirishima swallows the overwhelming panic. Keep it together, Red Riot. He carefully feels behind Bakugou’s neck, along the base of his skull and around to the side of his head pressed against the dirty floor. His fingers thread through bloody strands of hair as he finds the wound, a horrific gash stretching from his temple down behind his left ear. He presses against it, bracing his friend’s head with his other hand, hoping to stifle the bleeding from adding to the growing pool of red.

A moan.

Kirishima jerks. “Bakugou?!”

Bakugou’s eyebrows twitch, pulling together as his mouth twists up in a grimace. He lets out another low grumble, body shifting slightly before immediately tensing up and falling still once more.

“No, no, no, hey, don’t go back to sleep,” Kirishima calls, reaching again to squeeze Bakugou’s hand, desperate to call him back to consciousness before Kirishima loses him again.

A beat.

Heart-wrenching stillness.

Then an indiscernible mumble.

“Bakugou?”

“—fuck off.”

Kirishima lets out a choked sort of laugh. “Oh, you scared me, man. You with me?”

Bakugou just groans. Metal creaks as he attempts to move again, shifting slightly before something catches and he immediately falls still, exhaling a harsh breath at the pain. The hand in Kirishima’s grip jerks back, clenching in a fist against the ground. Pained red eyes squint through the hazy shadows, flitting across the wreckage around them before finally meeting Kirishima’s gaze. “Shitty Hair.”

At least his memory seems to be intact, Kirishima thinks, idly running a hand through his knotted, grimy red hair that, yeah, probably looks pretty shitty right now, he’ll give Bakugou that. “Yeah, it’s me,” he says. “Don’t move, okay?”

Bakugou grunts, grumbling under his breath something like, “Don’t tell me what to fucking do,” before once again attempting to push himself up. The wreckage creaks, stubbornly resisting, and Bakugou goes back down with a stifled cry, breathing hard against the ground.

“Bakugou, please—just stay still.” Kirishima presses his hand down against the other boy’s shoulder, hoping to keep his stubborn friend in place. “I’ll get you out, okay? Hold on.” He reaches out, probing at the crumpled frame of the train, the still-oozing wound across his palm leaving red-smeared fingerprints on the metal—a murder scene in the making. He glances back down at his friend, half-out of it and painted in far too much red, and he shoves that thought from his mind.

No one’s dying today.

The floor vibrates. Kirishima jerks up, waiting for another aftershock to start, but the sound of footsteps has him letting out a breath.

“He awake?”

It’s the passenger from the train—the brother. The mental checklist of survivors in Kirishima’s head ticks up by one, and the feeling of dread in his gut untwists a fraction more. The older boy looks relatively unscathed as he kneels beside them, eyes flitting from Bakugou to the girl and then back to the blood-streaked metal, fingers twitching like he wants to help but isn’t quite sure how.

“Sort of,” Kirishima tells him, ignoring the sluggish protest from Bakugou as the blonde half-consciously grumbles his hard-to-believe I’m fine’s. “I need to get him out.”

The boy grimaces. “I don’t know, man. He’s pinned pretty good. It might be safer to wait.”

‘Wait for the heroes,’ goes unsaid, but Kirishima hears it loud and clear. He also hears the groaning of metal, his friend’s measured yet shaky breaths, and his own heartbeat pounding in his ears—a ticking clock until disaster inevitably strikes again, until his body gives out and succumbs to exhaustion. They can’t afford to wait.

He moves then, shifting closer to where Bakugou’s body is hidden beneath the twisted metal. “No time,” he tells the other boy. “I’m trained for this. I’m getting him out.”

The boy opens his mouth as though to protest, but the girl interrupts. “Are you a hero?”

Kirishima feels her gaze on him, wide-eyed and trusting, and something starts to unravel in him—his sense of control fraying as panic eats at it, slipping through his fingers like sand. Are you a hero? It’s not even a question. “Yes,” he tells her. “I am.” He doesn’t clarify that he’s still a student. He doesn’t bother explaining that he’s never had to deal with a natural disaster like this. He doesn’t share that he’s not used to working alone, without Fat Gum’s loud encouragement, without Aizawa’s steady support, without his best friend watching his back.

He glances down at Bakugou, silently imploring him to open his eyes again, feeling embarrassingly unmoored without the familiar piercing red goading him on.

Are you a hero?

“Okay,” the boy says, unquestionable trust placed so suddenly in Kirishima’s lap it throws him for a moment. “Let’s get your friend out.”

It’s all the encouragement Kirishima needs. He shifts into position, gesturing the girl to back away to someplace safer, gets the boy to move closer so he’s ready to pull Bakugou from the wreck as soon as he’s free. The frame of the train car is unrecognizable, a warped husk of metal bent and broken. Bakugou is half-hidden beneath where the metal had been shoved inward by the collision, jagged edges lined with blood. There’s no way of knowing what’s behind the wall of metal, no way of knowing if Kirishima can even move it, but he has to try.

He places his hands against the metal, then nods at the other boy, who returns the gesture.

Ready.

Kirishima takes a breath, forces his skin to harden once more despite the screaming pain shooting through his body, and shoves against the wreckage pinning his friend with all the strength he has left. The metal frame groans against his weight, giving slightly—just enough to give him hope for success. He pushes harder, and it burns, sharp lines of steel threatening to chip away at his hardened skin, ready to pierce him the moment he falters. His heartbeat pounds, a timer ticking down—sand from an hourglass slipping through his shaking hands.

He's trembling so bad it feels like the metal is vibrating beneath his fingertips. Then he sees the other boy look up in alarm, and he curses under his breath as he realizes it’s not just him shaking this time. The entire train car is rattling.

Aftershock.

Again.

The metallic wreckage lets out a horrific groan, shifting dangerously, and Kirishima yells, ramming his hardened shoulder against the metal with all his might. Something finally yields, and the frame crumbles, giving way just enough for Kirishima to fall back and join the other boy as they both drag Bakugou to safety.

The blonde is conscious again, letting out a pained grunt as he’s pulled upward, one arm tugged around Kirishima’s shoulders and the other around the older boy. Kirishima tries to be careful, wishes they could afford to slow down because he knows being half-carried, half-dragged has to be jarring Bakugou’s injuries, but the train car rocks dangerously, threatening to send them to the floor. Kirishima tightens his grip on Bakugou’s body, guiding them past destroyed seats and the jagged edges of the metal frame. Bakugou grunts beside him, head bowed, as they finally stumble free from the wreckage.

“Sorry, man,” Kirishima murmurs. “Almost there.”

Ahead of them, the other passengers are a growing mass of fear, eyeing the ceiling with trepidation as the earth continues to rumble beneath them. Children are ducking beneath the arms of their parents. The group of students are huddled together. Other passengers—the ones that had been up and walking around, tending to the injured—are scrambling to hold on to something. And towards the back of the station, a familiar face lights up as he spots them. Kaminari is a sight for sore eyes, bloodied and bruised as he appears, and Kirishima opens his mouth to call out to him.

He doesn’t get the chance.

The broken concrete beneath their feet suddenly jerks to the side, and the three are thrown to the ground, a tangled mess of limbs as Kirishima loses his grip on Bakugou. They hit the debris-strewn floor hard enough to knock the breath from Kirishima’s lungs. Bits of broken concrete and metal dig uncomfortably into his ribs.

He hears Bakugou cry out beside him, hears the pained “—the fuck?” that he grits out, and reaches out for him instinctively. The world is still shaking, and Kirishima is dizzy—dizzy with pain, with relief, with fear. Something heavy hits the concrete beside them, and Kirishima flinches, realizing with horror that the ceiling is starting to give, threatening to collapse on top of them. Bakugou is still dazed on the ground, and Kirishima doesn’t think—he throws himself over his friend, hardening his skin once more, wrapping his arms around Bakugou’s head and tucking his own against his friend’s shoulder.

It's a sad mimic of a hug, and any other time, Kirishima would never let Bakugou live it down—that he managed to hug the blonde without his life being threatened with an explosion to the face. This time, though, Kirishima can’t think of anything but how terrified he his—terrified of the sky falling down, of the world crushing him into the earth, of his friend lying still beneath him, so horrifyingly, uncharacteristically vulnerable.

Bakugou is loud. He laughs in the face of villains. He’s the unstoppable force to Kirishima’s immovable object.

He’s not supposed to be vulnerable.

Chunks of the ceiling continue to fall, smacking into the concrete floor and sending plumes of dust and dirt into the air. Kirishima grunts as something drops onto his shoulder before tumbling off with a clatter. His arms shake as he holds himself up. The last few grains of sand trickle into the bottom of the hourglass, spilling out through the cracks in the glass, slipping through the cracks in his fingers, the cracks in his hardened skin. His shield threatens to fail him—fail him like he’d failed the other passengers, Kaminari, Bakugou.

He holds still for what feels like a lifetime.

The aftershock is over in seconds.

The silence is deafening.

Someone calls his name as he pushes himself up on trembling arms, crawling back away from Bakugou. His glances up, surveying the damage. The other passengers look okay. A few new injuries, a little more trauma, but they look alright. The boy that had helped them escape the train car also made it through unscathed, wrapped protectively around his sister. Large blocks of concrete and debris are scattered across the floor, but the ceiling—miraculously—held up.

And across the station floor, hobbling with a broken leg and a worried frown on his face, is Kaminari.

“Kirishima! Bakugou!” Kaminari calls. “Are you guys okay?”

Kirishima’s immediate thought is, ‘No, we’re not,” because his entire body is screaming at him, and Bakugou is alive but he really doesn’t look good. He’s breathing hard, clutching at his side like it hurts—maybe he’d bruised it when they fell—and staring up at the ceiling with a dazed look in his eyes that really doesn’t belong there. And yet, half-conscious, he still as the nerve to call out, “’m fine.” Red eyes flit to Kirishima’s own, and the blonde reaches a hand out—a silent ask for help.

Warning bells go off in Kirishima’s head. Something feels off—wrong—about the silent request. He has half a mind to argue, but Bakugou’s stubbornness seems to return to him faster than his consciousness because he’s interrupting before Kirishima can even open his mouth. “I’m good,” he all but growls, voice faint but no less intimidating. “Help me up, Shitty Hair.”

Kirishima doesn’t believe him, but he takes his hand anyway, carefully pulling him upright. The blonde is sitting up just as Kaminari reaches them, sitting cautiously to avoid jarring his leg. “Good to see you alive,” Kaminari’s saying, smiling a crooked grin at Bakugou. “I was worried for a second.”

Bakugou grumbles something no-doubt impolite in return, but Kirishima’s no longer paying attention. Instead, he’s staring at his hand in horrified confusion, at the fresh blood that stains his palm—the hand that had previously been unscathed, that had taken Bakugou’s own...

There’s blood on the floor.

There’s blood on the floor.

“Bakugou,” Kirishima says, voice sharp enough that Bakugou immediately stills from where he’d apparently been trying to stand up. Kirishima could throttle him. “You’re hurt.”

His friend tries to protest, but Kirishima ignores him, reaching across to the blonde’s right side, where his shirt clings to his skin, stained scarlet. Kirishima peels the fabric up, paling at the wound hidden beneath—a grisly thing of jagged, ripped skin and a scary amount of blood, oozing into a puddle on the floor. The gash stretches across his side, just above his hip. Just where the wreckage had him pinned, where the metal must have cut him. There’s no way of knowing when he’d been cut, if it had happened in the crash, or during Kirishima’s desperate efforts to free him.

No way of knowing how long he’d been bleeding.

Blood on the floor, on the metal.

Blood on his hands.

There’s a soft ‘shit,’ and then a weight hits Kirishima’s shoulder.

He looks up, alarmed. “Bakugou?!” The other boy had gone limp, falling forward against Kirishima, who immediately reaches a hand up to wrap securely around Bakugou’s back. His other hand presses hard against the still-bleeding wound, feeling red drip through his fingers. It’s another sick mimicry of a hug, and Kirishima kind of wants to cry.

“Woah,” Kaminari yelps. “Did he pass out?”

Kirishima swallows hard, feeling beyond overwhelmed. “He’s losing too much blood,” he chokes out. Losing blood. Losing time. “Help me get him down.”

They’re clumsy as they lower Bakugou back to the floor, hands trembling in panic and worry and exhaustion. The blonde’s skin is the color of paper, hair matted with blood and shirt soaked through with red. Kirishima keeps his hands over the wound on Bakugou’s side, pressing down hard. He can’t tell if it’s helping, can’t tell if he made it worse to begin with—if he failed to protect Bakugou in the crash, and then hurt him worse in his rush to free him.

Blood on the floor. Blood on his hands.

Did he make the wrong choice?

Their panicked shouting must have drawn the attention of the nearby passengers. Kirishima feels their gaze on his back—knows every pair of eyes is reflecting the same worry and fear he’d see in his own. He doesn’t want to look to confirm, doesn’t want the reminder that he’s still not doing enough to save them.

The sky can fall at any second. None of them are safe. 

A hand on his shoulder pulls him from his thoughts. He looks over to find the boy who’d helped them before holding out a hand, wordlessly offering a crumpled bundle of fabric. His hoodie, Kirishima realizes, and he takes it with a look that hopefully conveys all his thanks and none of his panic. He presses the clothing to Bakugou’s side, wincing as blood immediately seeps into the fabric.

The pressure is enough to finally draw Bakugou back to consciousness. The blonde jolts against the ground, letting out a choked groan as his head tosses to the side.

“Bakugou,” Kirishima breathes out. He can’t help the relieved laugh that bubbles up. “Welcome back, man.” His arms shake, muscles exhausted, and his grip slips. He repositions, pressing the fabric harder against the still-bleeding wound.

Bakugou kicks a leg out, heel scraping against the floor. “Agh, fuck—stop!”

It’s the closest thing to a plea he’ll ever hear from Bakugou, and it stabs at Kirishima’s heart, but he doesn’t let up the pressure. “I can’t, man, I’m sorry,” he says, watching as red slowly seeps into the untouched sleeve of the hoodie. “I’m not letting you die on me.”

Bakugou huffs, teeth gritted, but falls still. “M’not gonna fuckin’ die, Shitty Hair.”

“No,” Kirishima agrees. “You’re not.”

“None of us are,” Kaminari says. “We’re gonna get out of here.”

Kirishima looks up, meeting Kaminari’s gaze and then flitting to Atsumi who’d appeared behind him. “Did someone get through to the pros?”

Kaminari shifts, hesitant. “Well, no, but I figured they gotta know something’s wrong by now. I mean, a train literally crashed, and the tunnel collapsed. They’ll get here.” He pauses, glancing up at the ceiling, at the cracks spiderwebbing across, at the broken support beams and the shattered glass of the lights. “Eventually.”

Atsumi nods, looking weary. “They will come.” The unspoken part is loud: They’ll come, but will they come in time? Kirishima decides not to draw attention to it. Atsumi kneels carefully beside them, eyes on Kirishima. “How are you doing, little hero?”

Little hero. Maybe it should sound patronizing, but Kirishima doesn’t have the energy in him to figure it out. He just hears warm concern, and his aching body screams at him to let go, give in to the comfort. He just barely manages to bite back the impulsively honest words. “I’m fine,” he insists instead, readjusting his weight against Bakugou’s side, hearing the blonde’s breath hitch at the movement. Kirishima mutters an apology under his breath in reply.

Atsumi doesn’t look convinced. “Perhaps I could take a look at that,” he says, nodding towards Bakugou’s injury. “I have some experience as a medic. And you look like you need to lie down yourself.”

Kirishima hesitates, trusting the man’s words but reluctant to let a stranger lay his hands on his friend when he’s barely awake enough to defend himself. And if he’s being honest with himself, he’s also terrified of giving up the one tangible thing he can do to help. Bakugou’s hurt. His dried blood clings to Kirishima’s hands, stains his skin. He hadn’t been able to protect him, hadn’t had his back like he usually does, and he can’t stand the idea of sitting back and doing nothing to make up for it.

He has an objection on his tongue, ready to decline the help, but Kaminari interrupts. “He’s right, man,” he says, an unmasked look of concern on his face that Kirishima isn’t used to being on the receiving end of, one he doesn’t think is really necessary. “You really don’t look good.”

The reminder seems to force him back into his body, and he’s hit with a sudden wave of fatigue and pain that nearly has him keeling over. His chest aches, his head throbs, and his arms burn. Even his skin hurts, and the idea of activating his quirk even one more time has him swallowing back a curl of nausea in his stomach. He’s covered in dust and dirt and blood, and thinks—if Kaminari’s rough appearance resembles Kirishima’s own in any way—perhaps the other boy’s concern is a little warranted.

Kirishima doesn’t put up much of a fight after that.

He shuffles out of the way, letting Atsumi take his place at Bakugou’s side. He props himself up on wobbly arms and takes a breath, looking over at the other passengers. He should probably take Atsumi’s advice and lie down before his body decides for him, but something in him squeezes painfully at the idea of lying back and doing nothing. Even if there’s realistically nothing else he can do for his friends and the other passengers until rescue services get through to them, he’d rather be dragged into unconsciousness kicking and screaming than willingly give in now.

Instead, he allows himself a few moments to breathe, the first moments of almost-calm he’s felt since he woke up pinned under the rubble. He closes his eyes, hearing Atsumi’s reassuring voice and Kaminari’s familiar tone talking to Bakugou. He hears the subdued chatter of the other passengers, the crunch of concrete and glass underfoot, and the barely-there buzz of the remaining yellow lights.

Then he hears the whispers, the hisses of concern, the cries of alarm, and only when he snaps his eyes open does he hear the horrific sound of a fissure snaking its way across the ceiling directly above him, a lightning bolt sending a shock of panic straight to Kirishima’s heart.

Kaminari calls out to him, a warning, but Kirishima’s already scrambling up. “Get down,” he yells, his voice echoing painfully loud across the broken station. “GET DOWN!”

He has just enough time to rise to his knees before the sky implodes.

The ceiling buckles, support beams snapping as metal and concrete and asphalt tumble inward with a resounding rumble, a terrifying avalanche—another natural disaster capable of killing everything in its path. Kirishima calls up his quirk one last time—knows he’s not ready, knows he doesn’t have a choice—and braces himself for the inevitable.

It hits, and somehow he catches it. The agony is immediate. He feels it digging into his skull, pressing down on his shoulders, fusing together the vertebrae in his spine and forcing the air from his lungs. He gasps, desperately trying to hold on as he feels the weight slipping from his grip, threatening to crush everyone without mercy. He can feel himself shaking.

They’re running out of time.

It’s slipping, slipping, slipping...

Sand in an hourglass slipping through his fingers—the glass is weakening, cracks widening, and Kirishima doesn’t want to know what happens when it breaks, when he reaches his limit. Shield falling. Armor failing. Blood on his hands. He thinks of Atsumi, who hadn’t hesitated to offer his help even with his own injuries. He thinks of the old woman and her husband, who’d faced death and survived, a second chance at life. And he thinks of the boy and his sister, who hadn’t signed up to die with bloodstained hands like he had. He feels the unrelenting pressure above him, feels it pushing him closer and closer to the edge, taunting him now.

Blood on your hands.

Are you a hero?

The hourglass breaks.

And Kirishima screams.

. . .

Kirishima thought he knew what it felt like to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was wrong.

He’s used to people relying on him. He has to be. It’s what he’s trained to do—save people, reassure them, protect them, become a symbol of stability and strength and safety. An immovable object. A hero. He’s used to doing the unthinkable, surviving the unimaginable, facing the unforgettable. He’s fought villains capable of doing horrific things, and knows his future is filled with even more. He’d signed up for this, and he doesn’t regret it for one moment. So when the ceiling finally collapses, he knows he’s going to hold it up or die trying. People are counting on him.

He'd thought the collapsing sky had been heavy. The lives of three dozen passengers, of his friends, weighs so much more.

Sounds are muted, muffled through the screeching agony, but he hears them—shouting, screaming, calling for help, calling for him. He wants to reply, wants to open his eyes to prove to himself that they’re okay—and they will be, so long as he maintains his hold—but all his energy is being funneled into his strength, into keeping his quirk alive just a little bit longer. His muscles are white-hot with pain. His bones feel like molten lava, burning him up from the inside. His lungs seize, and he’s teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

“—ima! Kirishima!”

There’s a hand on his face, fingers tapping at his cheek. It’s a wonder he can feel it at all with his skin feeling like an inferno. He grits his teeth and pries an eye open, finding Kaminari’s face a few inches from his own. His yellow eyes are wide with terror, and Kirishima decides he doesn’t like that expression on his friend’s face. He wants to say something to change it, wants to promise he can hold up the sky, but the weight above him seems to grow and he crumples a little closer to the ground. “Can’t...”

“You can,” Kaminari insists, voice wavering. He’s terrified, and he’s putting all his trust in Kirishima. It’s almost enough to make him cry, but he doesn’t have the energy. “Just a little longer, man. The pros are here—they’re coming. You can’t give up now.”

He wants to look, wants to confirm with his own eyes that rescue has arrived, but his vision is fading into black around the edges. He holds tight onto Kaminari’s words, lets them patch up the cracks in his armor.

Just a little longer, man.

He can do that.

He looks past Kaminari, sees Bakugou still on the ground, head turned away, face hidden beneath a mess of bloodied hair. Atsumi is still hovering over him, and the hoodie is soaked in red. He’s running out of time.

Hold on—just a little longer.

Kirishima doesn’t know if he’s begging Bakugou or himself anymore.

He’s used to people relying on him. He’s used to being the immovable object. He’s just not used to doing it alone—without the unstoppable force of his best friend right beside him. Bakugou doesn’t stop. He doesn’t quit. It takes a heck of a lot to bring him down—and even more to get him to stay down. And now that he’s down, Kirishima has to make up for it—become the unstoppable force of nature he knows Bakugou to be. Immovable and unstoppable. Unyielding and undeterred.

The sky rests on his shoulders, and Kirishima sees red.

Red on the floor, on his hands. Familiar red eyes pushing him on—burning an unrelenting fire, the same blaze he’d see in the crimson eyes of his own reflection. He opens his eyes, and the world is awash in red, a warning—danger, danger, time is running out. He knows he’s out of time, so he gives it his all, and then gives even more and hopes it’s enough. Because the only other choice is to give up, and Red Riot doesn’t give up.

Immovable. Unstoppable. Unbreakable.

He lets himself succumb to the red-hot inferno burning through him, feeling the flames etch away at his hardened skin, threatening to melt through his armor. An explosion of pain, and he lets the blast wave carry him, unwilling to give in to the unrelenting pull of unconsciousness. Kicking and screaming, he reminds himself. Just a little longer. He hears voices around him, Kaminari’s loudest, and then others—muted, distant, like he’s underwater, drowning in the fire that burns even under the surface, stealing his oxygen for its own survival. He’s sinking, the pull of the pitch-black deep growing stronger, ready to pull him away from the pain—

He’s a hero.

Blood on his hands, fire in his lungs, Red Riot doesn’t give up.

With a final yell, he kicks back to the surface. The bubble of agonizing silence pops and the sudden noise is deafening—familiar voices and familiar sounds. He peers through squinted eyes, watching the chaos suddenly envelop the train station. Figures move about, carrying ropes and cables and equipment he can’t even name. He watches as columns of concrete shoot up from the floor like the material has a mind of its own, stabilizing the falling sky. The weight of the world is lifted off of his shoulders, and Kirishima falls.

He expects to hit the unforgiving floor. Instead, he’s caught by familiar arms dressed in black, and an immediate sense of relief floods through him. He slumps against the other, unable to hold himself up anymore, knows he doesn’t have to.

It’s over.

He wants to find Kaminari, wants to check on Bakugou, confirm with his own eyes that they’d all really made it out, but his words come out as little more than an indecipherable mumble. His limbs aren’t listening to his request to move either. He’d pushed himself far past any limit he’d ever reached, and now he’s paying for it.

But was it worth it?

His teacher must read his mind. “Everyone’s secure,” Aizawa says, voice low and reassuring, and Kirishima thinks it’s safe to sink now that Aizawa’s here. “You did good, kid. Rest.”

He does.

. . .

Kirishima drifts for a while. Unconsciousness clings to him, dark waves that shield him from the white-hot fire and the bone-deep ache of exhaustion. He moves with the gentle ebb and flow, letting himself be carried by the tide. Low murmurs filter through from the surface, soft and unintelligible—the quiet humming of a lullaby urging him back to sleep. Kirishima has no arguments, wanting nothing to do with the pain he knows awaits him if he were to wake. He can’t quite recall why he still feels the tendrils of fear, curled up in the corner of his mind, but he’s not ready to remember just yet. He just wants to drift—sink back into the soothing abyss of unconsciousness and let someone else deal with whatever problem he’s leaving behind.

The current rocks him one final time, as though agreeing, before depositing him on something soft. Adrift in the ocean between awareness and oblivion, Kirishima imagines it must be the seafloor—a bed of sand stretched out beneath him. All the sand he’d lost, that slipped through his fingers. Sand in the hourglass. A timer ticking down.

Now he’s got all the time in the world.

Voices croon above him, ebbing and flowing with the waves. He feels a prick at his arm, and he imagines the shards of the broken hourglass buried in the sand—imagines the cracks in the glass, cracks in his armor. Glass and sand and blood.

Blood?

Something tugs at him, pulling him back to the surface even as the bed of sand remains at his back. The voices around him get a little louder, a little sharper, and as he drifts closer to consciousness, the pain starts to return. It aches something fierce, and he groans, shifting away from whatever had dragged him away from the soothing waters of sleep. Someone shushes him then, whispering words of comfort, and Kirishima tenses at the unfamiliar voice.

“—don’t move, kid,” they’re saying. “You’re in good hands.”

Hands. Hands on his arms, on his side, on his head. They’re not familiar, and Kirishima feels a spike of panic at their touch. He jerks away from them, grimacing as the ache flares in his body. The strange hands follow, guiding him back in place, chiding him with gentle words: Stay still, please. You’ll hurt yourself.

Hands. Bloodstained hands.

“Is he okay?!”

The gruff voice is tired and pained but achingly familiar, and the swell of relief calms Kirishima’s panic.

Another familiar voice follows. “Bakugou, please sit down. You’re not fully healed yet.”

“No, fuck that—what happened to him?”

There’s something strange to Bakugou’s tone, something Kirishima can’t quite pinpoint, and suddenly he’s desperate—reaching back into the recesses of his mind to find what has his friend sounding so unlike himself. His memory is murky still, images warped by the rolling currents of unconsciousness, but he remembers the pain, the fear, Kaminari screaming at him—for him, the crumpled train cars, the falling sky.

And he remembers the red.

So, so much red.

His eyes snap open. “Bakugou,” he calls, his voice little more than a rasp. The world around him is awash in a blur of colors. He sees black, and a flash of blonde, but attempting to track them leaves him floundering in a dizzying riptide. His body aches at the mere thought of getting up, but his heart aches to move, to find his friends, to make sure they’re alright because the last he saw of them Kaminari looked terrified and Bakugou looked dead.

A shadow hovers over him. He blinks at it. “Bakugou?”

“Your friend’s okay,” the shadow assures. It’s not Bakugou.

Kirishima frowns. He can’t focus on the shadow, can’t make out its features, can’t tell if it’s telling the truth. It’s giving him a headache, so he shifts his gaze away, towards the dark blue expanse above him. At first he thinks it must be the ocean—with the soft bed of sand still beneath him and the undercurrents making him motion sick. But then he sees the sliver of a moon and a sprinkling of stars, and he realizes—

“The sky,” he murmurs. “It fell?”

The shadow follows his gaze. “No,” it says. “The sky’s still up there.”

Kirishima hums. “I caught it.”

The shadow says something else, a confused question, but it’s swept away by the haze that returns, a swirling current that lulls Kirishima back under the waves.

The sky fell, he thinks, drifting off once more.

I caught it.

. . .

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

“…structural damage caused by the initial earthquake, threatening the lives of dozens of passengers still trapped underground…”

Beep.

Beep.

“…multiple aftershocks left the station in further danger of collapse…”

Voices.

Familiar. Safe.

“…brave actions and quick thinking of one of UA’s own hero course students, who miraculously caught the collapsing rubble and prevented an unfathomable tragedy…”

Beep.

Beep.

Beepbeepbeepbeep—

“…express their thanks and hope that—Kirishima?”

He wakes to white. It blinds him as he squints at his surroundings—white walls, white ceiling, white floor. He’s covered in white, too. It’s scratchy against his skin, and uncomfortably familiar. The repetitive beeps from his bedside cements the memory, and he groans at the realization that he must be in the hospital. Again.

What happened to just playing civilian for once?

“Kirishima?” That voice. He knows that voice. “Are you awake?”

He rolls his head to the side, taking in the familiar pink that floods his vision, a relief from the painfully-bright white. “Ashido?”

Ashido grins wide. “Welcome back!”

Kirishima frowns. “Where did I go?”

“You don’t remember?”

He twists at the second voice coming from the other side of his bed. A flash of yellow. Kirishima lets out a sigh of relief. “Kaminari.”

The other boy is a sight for sore eyes, lounging in a no-doubt uncomfortable chair. His blonde hair is a mess, freckled with bits of dried blood and dirt like he’d made a half-hearted attempt to clean up. There’s a tired smile on his face, and his leg—propped up on Kirishima’s bed—is in a brace, but the fear is gone from his eyes. Instead, they sparkle with relief and a weary sort of awe. “You saved us.”

Can’t…

You can!

He remembers the pain. The exhaustion. He remembers hitting his limit and somehow hurtling past it. He remembers the screams and the fear and the confusing haze in the aftermath. “I did?”

“Bro, it was insane,” a new voice says from the foot of Kirishima’s hospital bed. A blur of black, an excitable grin—Sero. “Somebody was recording it, you know? It’s all over the news. It’s hard to see ‘cause of all the dust, and it was honestly kinda terrifying to watch. I mean, we know you’re okay now, but man—!”

Kirishima feels a little overwhelmed. The beats of the heart monitor speed up, betraying him. His voice comes out faint. “It was on the news?”

Ashido squeezes his arm, holding up her phone with her free hand. “Shizuoka praises hero Red Riot for his bravery in the aftermath of catastrophic earthquake,” she reads, turning her phone so he can see the article. The title is in bold red font, beneath a disturbing photo that must have come from the recording Sero had mentioned. It captures a grim scene—hazy air, the low glow of the remaining station lights, the blurred figures of the other passengers huddled together, staring up in horror at the mass of concrete and metal imploding inward. And at the center, beneath the falling sky, is Kirishima.

He sees red again. His red hair, covering his face. Red dripping from scrapes along his arms, the cracks in his hardened skin. Red on his hands, on the floor, soaking a blue hoodie on the ground, staining familiar blonde hair.

Too much red.

Way too much red.

Kirishima swallows. He thinks he can remember Bakugou’s voice—awake, alive—after they had been rescued. But his memories are foggy, blending together like those nightmares that come too close to reality and leave him second-guessing which is which. He sees too much red in that picture. Not the red he wants to see. “Bakugou?”

“He’s okay,” Kaminari says softly. “He’s mostly healed—just sleeping it off in another room.”

Kirishima glances over at Kaminari, eyes flitting down to his leg.

Kaminari answers the unasked question. “I’m good, too, man.” He huffs out a laugh, tapping the brace. “They just put this thing on me because I refused to stay in bed while it finished healing.”

“Yeah, you were the one we were worried about,” Sero says. “Bakugou was awake when Ashido and I got here—fighting the nurses about something. But you were out, man. It’s been almost 12 hours.”

Ashido sniffs. “Overexertion and extreme quirk exhaustion,” she quotes. “In other words, you pushed yourself, like, super hard. Overused your quirk. The doctors said you shouldn’t have been able to do what you did, Kirishima.”

A retort bubbles up in his throat. Part of him feels slighted, as though the doctors were agreeing with the voice in his head that claims he’s not strong enough. Part of him wants to take their side, shoulder the blame for Bakugou’s injury, for the bloodstained hands of that young girl. The rest of him just wants to shrug off the praise. It’s his responsibility. He’s a hero. He’d signed up for the red on his hands.

Ashido’s voice rings in his head: You shouldn’t have been able to do what you did.

A softer voice, buried beneath the weight of the sky, follows: You shouldn’t have had to do what you did.

There’s a scoff from the doorway. “As if Shitty Hair would ever let that stop him.”

Kirishima’s head snaps up.

Red. Achingly-familiar red eyes—tired and angry and alive. A rush of adrenaline suddenly fills him, and he scrambles from his bed on pain-stricken limbs. He throws his arms around his friend’s shoulders, an actual hug this time, and lets out a delirious sort of laugh at the relief that this time he might actually get an explosion to the face.

Bakugou grunts. “Oi—get off!”

“You’re okay.”

“’Course I am,” Bakugou says gruffly, pushing Kirishima away. “Told you I wasn’t dying.”

Kirishima opens his mouth to argue, thinking, it sure seemed close. Then he sees the dust still coating Bakugou’s arms, dried blood still clinging to his hair, and the dark circles on pale skin beneath weary eyes, and a flood of guilt has him falling silent.

“You almost missed the train, Shitty Hair. Seven-thirty, remember? Wasn’t this your shitty idea?”

It had been his idea. Leaving campus, taking a break from classes and hero training and the stress. Playing civilian, Kaminari had called it—a chance to get away, to escape from the hero life if only for one evening. Ashido and Sero and the rest of their classmates had been safe in the dorms when the earthquake struck—sheltered in a building meant to withstand 20 overpowered kids and then some. But Kaminari and Bakugou had been on a train. Their lives had been put in danger. Because Kirishima wanted a break.

“It’s my fault,” he grits out, remorseful red eyes meeting the growing confusion in Bakugou’s own. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Bakugou retorts. “You didn’t cause a fuckin’ earthquake.”

“No, but I’m the reason you got hurt,” Kirishima insists, feeling desperate but not sure if he wants them to agree with him or prove otherwise—to assure him that his friend’s blood isn’t on his hands even though dried blood still clings to his skin. “I acted too rashly—moved you when I should’ve waited for the pros, the medics.”

“And—what?” Bakugou growls. “Leave me there to die? That car was crushed when the station collapsed, Shitty Hair. Pulling me out may not have been the best choice, but it was the right one. I’m alive—so quit it with the guilty conscience.”

Kirishima sniffs. “You were still there because of me.”

Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Oh, for—!”

“Bakugou is correct,” Aizawa interjects, and for the first time Kirishima is aware of his teacher standing behind his friend in the doorway. The way his dark eyes appraise Kirishima has him on edge until he recognizes the look of pride on the pro’s face. “What happened last night was not on you. You performed admirably in an impossible situation, Kirishima. You did what you were trained to do and then some.”

Frustration bubbles up. “It was my idea to go out, though,” he argues. “I wanted a break from all the hero stuff—just for once—and look what happened!”

“You saved lives,” Aizawa says gently. “That’s what happened. The three of you ending up on that train was a matter of unfortunate circumstances. What you did with that unfortunate circumstance, Kirishima, is what matters. You got your friends out. You protected the other passengers. All forty-eight of them made it out alive last night.”

It was an answer to a question Kirishima had been too afraid to ask, and the relief nearly sends him to the floor. Aizawa catches him, guides him on wobbly legs to sit back on the side of the bed. Sero sits beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Kaminari nudges him with his healing leg. Bakugou leans against the wall, crossed arms and an unreadable look on his face, a small nod of approval, of gratitude, the only thing revealing his thoughts.

Aizawa’s not done with his speech, it seems. “Why didn’t you listen to the others when they tried to get you to stop?”

Kirishima looks up at his teacher, not bothering to ask how he knew about that. He hears their voices in his head, their attempts to get him to sit back and wait.

“That’s a job for the pros, kid. Wait for the heroes to get here.”

“Hey, Red, stop. You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

“Maybe worry about yourself, now, huh? You’re not looking so good.”

“It might be safer to wait.”

“You did good. Just stay down. Help will be here soon.”

Then he’s reminded of their other words, the words that added to the weight on his shoulders and lifted it off of him at the same time.

The elderly woman begging him to help her husband.

The woman at the crushed train car, confirming the man had gotten out: “Thanks to you, kid.”

The older brother trusting Kirishima’s judgement without question.

The young girl with the bloodstained hands, apologizing for not being strong enough.

Kaminari, terror in his eyes, trust in his voice: “You can! Just a little longer, man. You can’t give up now.”

Why didn’t you listen to the others when they tried to get you to stop?

Because it’s his responsibility. Because the sky fell and he was the only one who could catch it. Because he signed up for bloodstained hands and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Because I’m a hero,” he says earnestly.

Judging from the look in Aizawa’s eyes, that had been the answer he’d been waiting for. The pro sighs. “As much as I hate to see you kids run headfirst into danger, I can’t deny that you’re every bit the hero you’ve been training to be. You should be proud of yourself, Kirishima. Your friends are proud of you. I’m proud of you. And those civilians you protected are proud of you as well. Most of them have been wanting to express their thanks to you.” He nods to the other side of the room.

Kirishima twists around. Behind Ashido, propped up on a small table shoved against the wall, are dozens of cards covered in thank you’s and get-well-soon’s. There’s the sound of paper being unfolded as Ashido opens one—a clearly-handmade thing of notebook paper and pen—and hands it to Kirishima. He takes it with shaking hands. Dear Red Riot, it reads. Thanks for saving us. And for being strong enough to keep us safe. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to help. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a hero like you, but that’s okay. I think I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up instead. That way I can get stronger and help people with my quirk. Just like you. I hope you get well soon! I’ll be watching for you, Red Riot. Sincerely, Nakamura Mari.

Kirishima swallows a growing lump in his throat. He doesn’t recognize the name, but he recognizes the words, the apologizing for not being strong enough. He remembers the tears and the bloodied hands of the girl kneeling by Bakugou’s unmoving form, and he winces. Conflicting emotions are tugging at his heart—pain at the thought of the girl apologizing for something she should not have had to do, and awe that she saw strength in him when he felt it had been slipping through his fingers like sand in that damn hourglass.

Aizawa must recognize the quarrel of emotions on his face. “There will be days in your pro hero career where it will feel like no matter what you do, it will never be enough,” he says, a solemn tone to his voice that betrays years of personal experience. “Even on days where everyone miraculously makes it through. It’s okay to feel scared, to feel vulnerable, so long as you push through and hold on long enough to make it back home. And that’s what you did, Kirishima. It’s what you always do. And this time, you got your friends and all those civilians home, too.”

Sero slings an arm around Kirishima’s shoulders. “Yeah, he did!”

“Against all odds, and all that,” Kaminari agrees, shooting Kirishima an electric grin and two thumbs up. “That’s the Red Riot we know and love!”

Ashido ruffles Kirishima’s hair, taking advantage of it not being paralyzed with gel for once. Kirishima, feeling like a wrung-out rag, can’t find the energy to push her away.

And Bakugou, from his spot against the wall, meets Kirishima’s gaze and shrugs. “The impossible won’t stop you. You’re unbreakable, right? I was never worried.”

It’s the closest thing to outright praise he might ever get from Bakugou, and it stuns him into silence.

Kaminari, on the other hand, is unperturbed. “That’s ‘cause you were passed out for most of it, Kacchan.”

“Fuck off, Sparkplug!”

Aizawa looks stuck between amusement and resignation. “Alright, kids, time to go. Kirishima needs to rest.”

There’s a series of groans and protests that are quickly curbed by Aizawa’s steely look. Bakugou takes it upon himself to drag Sero out of the room by the ear. Kaminari and Ashido are quick to follow, shooting Kirishima matching grins and a “feel better, Kirishima!” over their shoulders as they leave. The room falls quiet, and despite feeling moderately overwhelmed and beyond exhausted, Kirishima finds himself missing their chaotic presence.

“I’m glad you’re okay, kid,” Aizawa says. “I’m sorry you were forced to such extremes.”  

Kirishima shrugs, sinking back against the bed. “Occupational hazard, right? I signed up for this. That and a ton of bad luck, apparently.”

There’s a sparkle of humor in Aizawa’s eyes. “Some might argue that’s also an occupational hazard. I think you and your classmates are unfortunately a little too familiar with that.”

Kirishima huffs out a laugh, eyes already half-closed as exhaustion takes over.

“Get some sleep, Kirishima,” Aizawa’s voice calls as he shuts off the light. “I think Red Riot has earned himself an actual break.”

Kirishima hums, assenting, even as he thinks—there’s no such thing. Sure, it’ll be nice to play civilian every once and awhile, try to forget about the villains he’s faced and the battles he and his friends have already fought, but he’s a hero now. Costume or not, there’s no stripping him of that identity. It’s his responsibility, his burden to carry. And maybe it’s a little reassuring to be reminded that he isn’t alone, that even when it all is (quite literally) resting on his shoulders, he has his friends and his teachers supporting him. And when it’s up to him to catch the falling sky, he'll do it without question, and knows that someone will be there to catch him when it’s his turn to fall.

So despite the pain and stress and grief that being a hero brings, despite the exhausting and terrifying things he and his friends have already had to face, Kirishima will keep pushing on. Because he’s a hero. He’s Red Riot.

And Red Riot doesn’t give up.

Shizuoka Today || Teenage hero steps up in train station collapse. 11:43 a.m.

Musutafu News || Shizuoka praises hero Red Riot for his bravery in the aftermath of catastrophic earthquake. 12:28 p.m.

Kansai News Channel || No casualties reported in Shizuoka train collapse; survivors say they have UA student Kirishima Eijiro to thank. 12:51 p.m.

HeroUpdates || Up-and-coming hero Red Riot saves the day! 1:12 p.m.